Desperate Times
by Highland-Lowlife
Summary: Their hero is gone, and with the streets becoming more dangerous than ever, the now suffering people of Gotham will have to turn to some strange bedfellows indeed to protect them.
1. Chapter 1

Desperate Times

Chapter 1

Everything Burns

The three men sitting, playing poker and smoking poor-quality cigarettes in an empty warehouse in the Narrows, would be called by almost everybody, up to and including them, very bad people. But in Gotham it turns out you could make a very respectable living being a very bad person.

Currently, they were discussing topics ranging from "Son of a bitch it's cold!" to "Shut the fuck up and deal the fuckin' cards."

They were truly gentlemen of great quality, thought the man hiding in the rafters.

The largest of the three looked at his watch.  
"Boss is late. Again."  
The one dealing, a bald man with a skull tattooed on the back of his head, looked up.  
"Yeah? So?"  
The big one shrugged.  
"Just wondering if he's still all there, you know? He's always showing up at weird times, never looks you in the eye, always twitching, all that shit. He makes me nervous."  
The bald one grinned.  
"Awww, Bruce, you don't gotta be afraid. I'll protect you."  
"Hey, fuck you. It's weird is all I'm saying."  
Bruce glowered.  
The third man raised an eyebrow.  
"Well, think about it. He got both his legs busted by the Bat, may he rot in hell, then got halfway crushed to death in that car crash. Even all these years later, he's bound to be a little jittery."  
Bruce looked at his cards reflectively.  
"I guess. Still, you wonder if he's fit to be outside of a padded cell, let alone running this operation. I mean, come on Jimmy, you telling me you never thinks its weird that a fuckin' psych patient is a mob boss?"  
Jimmy laughed.  
"In this town? I'm surprised he ain't runnin' for fuckin' mayor."

As the three men continued to deal the next hand, the rusting door of the warehouse opened with slightly less noise than someone butchering a live dolphin.  
An elderly man in a grey suit stepped in, looking around warily. He walked with a cane, and limped heavily. His face and hands were covered in scars, and he kept looking around at something that he never seemed to be able to see.

"You boys talking about me again? I'm flattered."  
The voice was like sandpaper.  
The three men jumped to their feet, looking guilty.  
"No mister Maroni, we was just-"  
"Shut up Bruce. I don't care what you think about me, so long as you like getting paid and do what you're told."  
Jimmy shrugged.  
"Sounds fair enough to me. Are we ready to go then mister Maroni?"  
Maroni nodded.  
"Good kid. And yes, Sionis's men will be making their delivery in forty-five minutes, and we need to make sure that-"

People often think that it's big, loud sounds that you notice most, but it's not. Big sounds are usually general, public sounds, and as such not your problem. It's the little, personal, sounds, that get your attention.  
Such as the small click of a door locking.

All four men turned as one to look at the door Maroni had just come through.  
They saw a small man, maybe five seven, turning from the now locked door to stare at them. He was completely bald, even his eyebrows, and his skin had the stretched, reddened look of someone who's been burnt again, and again. The only visible part of his face was his eyes, the rest hidden beneath a black industrial respirator, and after looking at his eyes, you really, really wished they were hidden too.  
He was wearing what remained of a pair of black, fire-retardant coveralls, the entire top half was missing, and he had translucent cables full of some clear liquid wrapped around his arms and chest- wait. No, not wrapped around him. Wrapped through him.  
He had an elderly hunting rifle over his shoulder, and what looked like an oxygen tank strapped to his back. To the gawking mobsters, he looked like the devil on a bad day.

All four men stared at this apparition. Then, voicing their collective thoughts, Maroni said:  
"Who in the hell are you?"

The man raised his hands as if in welcome.  
"What's in a name? A fire by any other name would still burn, would it not? Who I am does not matter. I'm just glad you've finally decided to join us Mr. Maroni. I was beginning to worry you wouldn't make it!"  
His voice was slightly distorted by the mask, but was still light, pleasant even, with a very cultured Oxford accent. If a voice could be described as manicured, this one would be.

Bruce looked at his boss.  
"Boss, you want him gone?"  
"Yeah. I do."  
The mountain of a man stepped towards the apparition.  
"You heard the boss, you'd best leave before you get hurt."  
You could almost see the smile.  
"Oh, I don't think so my good man. That wouldn't be any fun."  
A knife appeared in Bruce's hand as if by magic, and he lunged with surprising speed.  
The man stepped to left, hands clasped nonchalantly in front of him, as if he was allowing someone to pass him on the sidewalk. Almost as an afterthought, he turned as the huge man sailed past him, and delivered a vicious kick to his lower back with a heavy work boot, slamming him into the concrete wall with a sickening crack.

The other two thugs were already reaching for their guns as the man continued his turn, spinning to stretch an arm at each of them, hands open, palms pushed forward.  
It was at this point that Maroni noticed that at the base of each of the man's hands there was what appeared to be an opening to a tube, covered in wire mesh.  
Before he could register this, clear liquid sprayed from both of the man's hands, hitting both of his men square in the face, causing them to stumble and lower their weapons.  
In the moment of confusion, the apparition produced what appeared to be a modified aerosol can, and a Zippo lighter from the pocket of his overalls.

Maroni suddenly realized what the man was doing.  
"Shit."  
He said, and tried to turn his back.

The flame blossomed from the out held lighter a good six feet in front of the man, lighting both thugs instantly.

Maroni turned and held his hands over his ears to try to drown out the screams.

A minute or so later, the nightmarish man kicked over what was left of the bodies, and helped the ageing mob boss to his feet.

"I do apologize Mr. Maroni, but in my defence, they started it."  
Maroni looked up at him as he was gently but forcefully pushed into a chair.  
"What are you?"  
The man turned, and began to spray the room around them with the fluid from his wrists.  
He called over his shoulder.  
"Just a man who takes his hobbies seriously Mr. Maroni."  
He finished coating the majority of the room in the flammable liquid and turned back, wiping his hands.  
"Although I am technically in the employ of Roman Sionis, his asking me to come and crash your little soirée tonight was just happy coincidence. I am here because I like to think of myself as a conduit. A conduit for fire, Mr. Maroni. Now fire, as you know, is indiscriminate. It does not spare the rich, or the poor. The strong, or the weak. It takes as it pleases. But you will find if you do your research, Mr. Maroni,"  
He leaned in close,  
"That it has a particular hunger for the wicked."

He cracked his knuckles.  
"Now, I really hate to do this, but I'm afraid I can't leave anything to chance..."  
The old man screamed as a steel toe broke his shin.  
"I do apologize, it's really rather barbaric of me, but sometimes principles must be overruled briefly."  
The apparition took out his lighter again, an elegant brass piece, embossed with a simple picture of a fly.  
"And now I must bid you adieu, Mr. Maroni."  
He lit one of the wooden chairs lying on the floor, and watched for a moment as the floor quickly began to catch.  
A single tear slid down his face.  
He turned and strode back to the door, stopping before he left the building to call once more over his shoulder.  
"Stay warm Mr. Maroni."  
Then he left, blocking the door with an oil drum.

The warehouse was quickly catching fire behind him as he walked cheerfully away, tossing his fly-themed lighter in the air and catching it again, and singing to himself.

"Love, is a burning thing..."


	2. The Times They Are A' Changing

Desperate Times

Chapter 2

The Times They Are A' Changing

Commissioner James "almost-retired" Gordon didn't smile. This was normal.  
He turned from the smouldering remains of the river warehouse, reaching into his battered trench coat for a small, equally battered flask and taking a quick slug.  
In fact, everything about the Commissioner could be described as battered.  
Heavy-lidded, deep-set eyes that had seen more than one man should, skin pulled tighter against his bones with every year that passed, plenty of scars from more pointless fights than he could remember, hands used to holding a badge and a gun becoming more and more clubbed with arthritis, hair gone grey fifteen years earlier than should have.  
He sighed as he looked at his distorted reflection in the dented steel of the flask. He probably should have quit years ago. But a town like this needed all the help it could get. Even from an old man.

He stepped back into the wreckage as Detective Reilly stood up from examining one of four charred corpses, and closed his cellphone.  
"Dental records just came back. Three mid-level heavies, and Maroni himself."  
Reilly was a young Irishman, and relatively new addition to the force. He was short-tempered, never backed down from a fight, and held his ideals like a bible. He reminded Gordon a bit of how he used to be, when he was young and naïve.  
He sighed.  
"The last of the old boys. He was a heartless bastard, but he never brought harm to a civilian if he could help it. Bad, of course, but nothing like what we're dealing with now. He at least had style."  
He took another, slightly longer pull at the flask, then extended it to the younger man.  
"Want some? Nights like this, it helps."  
Reilly raised an eyebrow.  
"Drink on the job?"  
"You're Irish, aren't you?"  
"You're lucky you pay me, with cracks like that."  
But he grinned, and took the proffered flask and swallowed a substantial mouthful.  
"Jameson's? Y'know Commissioner, I think I almost like you."  
Gordon chuckled dryly.  
"It's my good looks and charm."

The two men surveyed what was left of the building. It was strange, when you thought about it. Yesterday, there was a building here. People had spent months constructing it to be sturdy and, ironically enough, fire-rated. It had stood there for over twenty years, and suddenly, along with four people, it wasn't there anymore. And nobody noticed. The world went on as usual. In all likelihood, the only two men who really, truly cared, were standing right here.  
And people wondered why Gordon started drinking.

"You figure it's the Firefly again?"  
The young man's voice snapped Gordon out of his reverie.  
He rubbed his chin thoughtfully.  
"Three buildings torched in the past two weeks, all of them either mob hideouts or drop points, all of them set when no civilians are inside. Pretty hard to say its a coincidence."  
Reilly nodded.  
"I've got statements from locals at the last two scenes saying a man with a gas mask and some sort of canister on his back was seen leaving both buildings. I'll see what I can get from the people around here, but I suspect it won't be much."  
The Commissioner had another drink in agreement.  
"See what you can dig up. So this guy is a new hitter for one of the other gangs, or someone trying to get their attention, most likely. Either way, he's done his job well."  
He shook his head.  
"Always worries me when criminals start showing a taste for the theatrical."  
"Bad memories?"  
"Worse than you can imagine. And this time..."  
Gordon looked at the sky.  
"This time we're on our own."

Two hours and a bunch of paperwork later, Reilly had gone home and Gordon was sitting on the station roof with a newly refilled flask.  
He leaned back in the ancient wooden chair next to the long-disused floodlight that had once been his symbol of hope.  
He stared up at where the hazy image of a bat would've appeared if things had gone differently.  
"It's twenty years today, you know. Exactly twenty years since you died."  
He sipped reflectively at his whiskey as he talked to a man who wasn't there.  
"Twenty years since you saved the city from Bane. Gave your life, and your identity, for this city and its people. And you changed things. You dying shocked and inspired Gotham into saving itself. At first."  
He sipped again, and stood up to start pacing the roof.  
"Crime rates went down, same with homelessness, more shelters were built, the Narrows were starting to get cleaned up. It was beautiful. But it couldn't last. Eventually, people forgot about you, about your legacy, about what you did for us. Things started getting bad again. Blake took up your mantle for a while, he was good, too. But about six years ago a mobster with a personality complex, thinks he takes orders from a ventriloquist's dummy, managed to shoot him down. That's when our hope essentially died."  
He sat down again, and went to take another drink. He turned the empty flask upside down and regarded it disapprovingly.  
"Now? I'm an old drunk, and you're just a memory."  
He looked up at the sky once more.  
"I tell you my friend, we need another hero."

Commissioner Gordon stood and went to leave the roof, stopping at the door to the stairs and turning to look at the floodlight once more.  
"Goodnight Bat."  
Then he locked the door behind him and went in search of more alcohol.

If one had been walking along the street past the police station that night as the Commissioner was having his heart to heart with himself, and had happened to look up at the inset window ledge directly below the floodlight, one might have been able to see a slightly darker patch of shadow that, at the right angle, glinted softly in the street lights, as if off of polished glass.

And if a keen observer had watched that building closely in the hour after Gordon left, they would have seen that shadow move to the wall, and somehow climb the last few feet to the roof. And they would have seen this shadow stand and stare at the forgotten light of hope for a while, and then reach inside the light to rearrange some wires and filaments. And they would have seen the shadow grab the metal bat welded to the light, and pull it off like it was a sticker. And then, if the were watching closely, they would've seen this shadow turn it on.

And, and this is only hypothetical of course, if someone had gone back up to the roof to examine this light, even though it was a warm night in July, they would have found a thick layer of frost covering it, bathing the sky above in pale blue light.


End file.
